


Historiography

by DoreyG



Category: Egyptian Mythology
Genre: Blowjobs, Community: kink_bingo, Especially Egyptian myth, Hotel!Sex, Incest, Ink, M/M, Painting, References to past eye loss, Ruined sheets absolutely everywhere, Though I'm not really sure how appropriate warning for that is when you're working with myth, Writing on the Body, references to past violence, sort of future fic, tons of mythological references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-25
Updated: 2012-09-25
Packaged: 2017-11-15 01:31:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set is laid out beneath him, the long line of his body barely relaxed as he props his chin on a pillow and stares politely at the wall before him. Sweat sheens his back too, makes every whipcord muscle stand out as he casually sprawls and absently kicks the blanket heaped at the bottom of the bed just that little bit further away.</p>
<p>He appreciates the view for a second, they may be the worst of enemies and so much more besides but he still has <i>taste</i>, before dipping the brush back into the pot. Stirring it around a few times before drawing it out: thick and <i>dripping</i> with black.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Historiography

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 'Writing on the Body' square of my Kink_Bingo, and thus completing a line/bingo/thing! I've wanted to write these two for forever, and went through about three squares with them before settling upon this one. I've tried to place the myths in rough order: but, let's face it, the nature of myths means that they're generally all over the place and tend to contradict each other anyway!

It’s mid-afternoon. The light trickles, low and dusty, through the barely closed window. No breeze stirs the room, making it hot and sticky and ever so close. He can feel the sweat starting to sheen on his arms, everything slick and slightly uncomfortable as he shifts carefully into a better position.

Set is laid out beneath him, the long line of his body barely relaxed as he props his chin on a pillow and stares politely at the wall before him. Sweat sheens his back too, makes every whipcord muscle stand out as he casually sprawls and absently kicks the blanket heaped at the bottom of the bed just that little bit further away.

He appreciates the view for a second, they may be the worst of enemies and so much more besides but he still has _taste_ , before dipping the brush back into the pot. Stirring it around a few times before drawing it out: thick and _dripping_ with black.

Set doesn’t even start when the cold tip of the brush touches the warm top of his shaved skull, simply burrows deeper into the pillow and lets out a low sigh through his nose.

He thinks for only a second before finally tightening his grip on the brush, old wood digging just slightly into his palm, and getting to work. He’s wrote a few things on bared flesh since they’ve been doing this, practically since the beginning of time when everything was still new and the people were still obedient, but today he goes for the most familiar story. The one they’ve actually been _living_ for all these years.

He writes, or drips, a short account of the beginning: of the four children created by Geb and Nut so very long ago. Of beautiful Nephthys and dark Set and smart Isis and noble Osiris. He fills Set’s entire skull with the tale, half of his neck as he tells of how Isis and Osiris grew ever so bright and dark Set grew ever so bitter in return.

And Set barely reacts to the tale, to the dark ink covering dark skin. Only _grumbles_ softly through his nose this time, buries his face deeper into the pillow and tries to pretend that he’s sleeping.

Which doesn’t fool him for a second, of course, for they know each other _so_ very well by now. The tale runs out halfway down Set’s neck, tiny space almost hampering him as he signs the last sentence with a gentle dot. He pauses for a second, as he dwells on what comes next – fills it with a slow roll of his hips and a gentle press of his fingers against Set’s warm back.

This time, halfway down Set’s neck, he restarts with the shapes that everybody was eventually driven into. With Set growing _so_ bitter, so hateful and dark with his brother’s radiant light constantly hanging over him, that he hatched a plan evil enough to amuse Apep. With how this plan involved him brutally murdering his older brother, chopping him to parts and then casting him to the four winds where nobody could find him. He writes, with some compassion, of all the years of wandering that Isis did – of her shock, her grief, her ceaseless determination to put her dead husband back together so he’d at least be afforded a grave.

And Set, this time, reacts: _growls_ softly, after a while. Pushes up on his elbows, not enough to disturb the pot or dislodge the brush on his back, and props his chin on his palms - _frowns_ at the blank wall in front of him instead.

“You don’t like that,” he can’t help but grin, press the brush in for another full stop and rock his hips again for _emphasis_ , “do you?”

He writes of how smart Isis, with the help of Nephthys, finally managed to gather all the pieces of her husband but one. How she put them back together, inch by inch until he briefly breathed and talked and smiled again. How she crafted that final piece, carefully and lovingly, and laid with him for one last night (in vague detail for he’s not _Greek_ ). Of how Osiris rose the next morning, descended to the land below with a single kiss pressed to his wife’s wet cheek.

“I like that bit,” Set offers mildly, still politely frowning at the wall as he drops yet another full stop just above the man’s first rib, “very much so, actually. It’s the part that comes _afterwards_ that I’m not so keen on.”

“Careful,” he sniffs, swaying briefly back to appreciate his casual work and deeming it _just_ good enough, “I might get annoyed.”

He writes of his conception, on that one last night, of his birth not that long afterwards. Of his babyhood, cradled in his mother’s desperate arms as she clung to that one last reminder of her dear dead Osiris. He writes of Set’s immediate enmity, springing into life the _moment_ they first glimpsed each other. Of his plans to kill him from that first meeting of the eyes, of those plans put into _action_ before he’d even taken his first stumbling step.

“You deserved it,” Set speaks up again: eyes briefly fluttering shut, own hips briefly rolling down into the soft covers of the bed, “brat.”

“I was _two_ ,” he replies sharply, mock sharply as he reaches the rough middle of Set’s stretched ribs and carefully flicks his fingernail against a ticklier one, “bastard.”

He writes, making sure to _stab_ the brush this time, of how Isis eventually took action and started to protect him from murderous Set. Of how she hid him, trained him, _lied_ to her brother every time he came calling with angry eyes. He writes smilingly of the Lotus story, of how he was dropped into one by his mother and told to wait there until he was old enough to punch back just as hard. Of how he grew up there, shaded by huge white leaves and knowing that his time was _coming_ even as smart Isis tried to protect him over and over again. He writes…

“Oh, yes, you always _were_ a defiant brat,” Set sighs wryly, as he finally reaches the man’s narrow waist with a little _flourish_ , “to everybody, really: me, your mother, Ra… It’s a miracle that anybody really likes you at _all_ , to be perfectly honest.”

“I’ve never ripped up my siblings and ruined their significant others’ lives,” he smiles sweetly, carefully reaches for the pot of ink again, “that’s probably why, to be equally honest.”

And he writes of the battles.

“You don’t _have_ any-“

He writes of when they both turned into hippopotami, their very first battle, over the lower part of Set’s back. Of how they held their breaths for a while, as was the agreed upon contest, but eventually gave up and just went for each other. Of how Isis didn’t want her son killed, and so grievously wounded Set, but of how she didn’t want her only remaining brother killed either, and so injured _him_ just as badly.

He writes of the eye over Set’s still pert arse, spares the gorier details due to the delicate placing. Instead focuses on the violence of the night, the pressure, the agonizing _pop_ that had him giving up and fleeing for the first and only time in his life. He feels a phantom of that pain as he paints, shifts briefly back and brings up a hand to ghost over the hollow on his left.

He writes of the boat story, too, down Set’s left _leg_. Of the stone boats, the agreement to attempt a race in exactly the same way. Of his cunning – “ _Lying_ ,” Set hisses through gritted teeth – in figuring out that he only had to paint the boat to _look_ like stone. Of Set’s steady sink, his sopping climb out and his sodden glare as he stood on the river bank and was proclaimed the loser.

He writes of their _proper_ battle, curving down Set’s right leg. Of the hours it took, the blows that were struck, the eternity that it felt like they were the only two in the world. Of the way Set suffered a strike to his knee, the brush dips over it ever now, which still makes him limp in colder weather. Of how his eye was briefly covered, cursed by Set, but soon restored by Hathor – who called him the light of the sun and sent him on his merry way.

He…

There’s no skin left on Set’s back, not a single _inch_ , so he takes the logical option – taps his fingers against the man’s hip and shuffles over to let him huff and spin. The sheets are going to be wrecked in the morning, absolutely and utterly _ruined_ \- but he’s fine about that with Set glaring up at him through narrow eyes, Set’s smooth and muscular chest stretching out beneath his fingertips, Set’s _cock_ straining proudly upwards between his thighs.

He smiles, just for a second.

“Brat,” Set huffs, _rolling_ his eyes like he’s the most immature thing in the universe, “get _on_ with it.”

And he writes upon the presented skin of Set’s chest, making sure to _slide_ the brush instead of merely pressing it. Tells of how Set came to him the first time, half naked and with glowing eyes. Tells of how he was tempted, _so_ tempted with Set’s soft finger to his lips and Set’s warm words in his ear. Tells of how he planned nonetheless, asked advice of Hathor and Seshat and _anybody_ but his mother. Tells of how he went that night, plan in mind, and of the first time Set kissed him – and touched him, and mouthed over his jaw, and pushed him down to the cold floor as he opened his clothes, _and_ -

“Knew you weren’t completely unaffected,” Set chuckles smugly, seemingly capable of ignoring how his breath hitches at the bump of a half-hard cock against his lower thigh, “ _knew_ it.”

“Oh,” he huffs, before he can quite stop himself. Swipes the brush first over one nipple, and then the other to make up for it, “shut _up_.”

He takes a break from writing, takes to dripping little sketches on Set’s arms for a while instead. A long, dark line that could be the Nile at full flood. A smudged press that resembles a hawk glaring out at the world before him. A desert with heat haze shaded carefully above. A donkey glaring just as fiercely as the hawk with dull teeth bared. A pair of weights with the heart dipping far lower than the feather. A hawk perched on a donkey’s back, clawing at its skin as the beast twists back to take a vicious bite-

“I should’ve realized it sooner, really,” Set continues, voice _smirking_ even as he trembles, “you did _moan_ an awful lot at the time…”

“I thought I told you to shut up?”

He goes back to writing, this time across the flat plain of Set’s stomach. Records how he laid in contentment for an age after Set had got up and smugly left, how he’d finally pressed smugly up off the floor himself and gone on his own way again. Notes how, a little later, he’d smeared his _own_ semen on a lettuce leaf and had left it as a clear present where Set was most likely to wander. Observes, a touch _smugger_ now, how they’d both gone to the next meeting of the gods just as pleased as each other – and how Set had demanded a test to see who was the most submissive at the cost of all else. And tells… Of how Set had _glowed_ , so brilliant and obvious, and had _gawped_ as he was grabbed by guards and dragged away into Ra’s service.

“And kept visiting me after…”

“Hush.”

He writes of how Set was reluctantly forced to stay with Ra, scribbles it out down the front of the man’s left leg, and how he eventually took to his new role with _aplomb_. Describes, with only the faintest flicker of remembered terror, how he speared Apep every single night – sent the evil snake falling back into darkness without a single blink. Describes how he grew into a warrior, something beyond a chaotic murderer as he stood on the flip of the barque and stared down into the abyss. Describes, _yes_ , how he _did_ eventually start visiting the man after a few years of separate ruling – how they sat on the edge of the boat as Ra soared high in the sky and talked calmly about the little things that meant everything at all.

“And even invited me back into your bed, after enough time had passed…”

“ _Shush_.”

He paints, down the front of the man’s right leg, of how thousands of years passed and thousands of fights came and went. He writes of how, eventually, Ra allowed Set to leave in favour of a fresher protector. Of how Set came to him, eyes glinting through the firelight just as they did so long ago, and sat with him silently as the Ptolemeys established their stronghold. 

He paints of how they watched for years, of how the Ptolemeys eventually fell while they were still there with tightly clasped hands. He writes of the confusion afterwards, walking through pure chaos with Set smiling darkly at his side. Of how time eventually started to go by, after that original stunted period – as slow as syrup at first and then progressing until it was as fast as a burst dam. 

He paints of how they became enemies again, fond ones this time who had only each other in an entirely changed world. He writes of how they became myths, _legends_ to be used in art and told to small children. Of how one day, in the dying months of the eighteenth century, Set showed up at his door in Napoleonic France – smiled at him for a few seconds before pushing him in and making them both forget the whole universe around them.

Set smiles down at him now as he fits in the final words on the tip of his foot, fists his hands slowly and surely in the definitely ink spattered sheets “…And you’ve kept me in your bed until this very day, haven’t you-?”

And he _could_ choose to keep recording their history right up to present day. He _could_ write about the continents travelled, the people met, the battles fought with smiling eyes. He _could_ muse about all the secret hotel rooms, the kisses traded, the hot brush of flesh against flesh. He _could_ tell about their lives bound so steadily together, about the endless times he’s painted their story out over willingly warm skin-

…But there are better ways to do such things.

He tosses both pot and brush to the side, quite casually. Grabs Set’s thighs, smudging the ink helplessly over his fingers, and leans in – pushing his mouth down and over before Set can do more than _choke_.

He takes the man deep and thorough, keeping his hands on those thighs even as he can _feel_ the ink staining his fingers. He listens to Set’s soft growls underneath him, smiles to himself as he allows the man’s cock to bump right up against the back of his throat.

He draws back for unneeded air on a regular basis, creating a bobbing motion that gets Set curling into himself and pressing the ink on his chest and stomach together. The noises the man makes when he draws all the way back and flicks his tongue over his head are _sublime_ , he does it again and again just to feel the shaking moans right through him.

He brings his fingers into it eventually, sliding them between Set’s legs and feeling the stickiness of ink from the man’s arse. And the man _yelps_ when he circles around the back of his balls, yelps and yells and yowls and- _and_ -

He draws back, just in time. Flops to the side and smears ink across his back _just_ as Set explodes with a choked off cry. Crumples back to the bed, limp and trembling and pale, with eyes wide and skin _covered_ in smudged black ink that turns everything beautifully indistinct.

A moment ticks by.

He rests his cheek on Set’s hip, finds that he doesn’t really _care_ about it getting dirty as Set huffs one final breath through his nose and reaches down to card one set of fingers through his dark hair.

“…Still won’t let me inseminate you, then.”

He smiles a little, can’t really help himself – leans up into the press of fingers through his hair and happily closes his eyes for just a second, “have I ever?”

“I live in hope.”

It’s afternoon, steadily turning into evening. The room is slowly starting to cool and the both of them are covered in ink. He smiles even wider, keeps pressing up into Set’s stroking hand and waits until they’re inevitably ready to start all over yet another time.


End file.
